


The Poor Man's Heart

by sariagray



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three moments in the days before Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poor Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, a gift for analineblue.

_'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;  
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;  
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer  
The poor man's heart through half the year._  
-Walter Scott

 

Ianto hung all of the green foil reindeer along the back wall of the tourist office at what he mentally insisted were intentional jaunty angles, but really, he was drunk. Not too bad, not run-across-the-Plass-naked drunk, or go-home-to-the-wrong-house drunk, but definitely lopsided-reindeer drunk.

There was a mound of silvery tinsel in the bottom of the cardboard box that he was tempted to just scatter around, see where it landed like ominous entrails and leave it to glitter underfoot. He was sloppy drunk – well, no. Poor connotations, that. He was _untidy_ drunk. And where had his tie gotten to?

He’d probably left it behind at the Annual Torchwood Christmas Pub Night (never mind that this was the first one they’d ever had, or that they may not be there for the next; it’s important to keep traditions). He reached into his pocket to see if he had, by chance, shoved it there for whatever reason and came back with a palm full of loose mints and the cap to a tube of lipstick. Huh. He deposited them on the desk.

There were lights to be strung, and a large banner, and maybe he’d need help. Jack had to be around somewhere, up or down. He glanced in both directions, briefly, as if expecting to see him through layers of concrete and steel. X-ray vision would be pretty nice.

“Looking for this?”

Ianto whirled, ungainly, to his left. Jack was leaning against the door with Ianto’s tie a liquid swath of red dangling from between his fingers like a pendulum. Ah. Both things he’d been looking for.

“Yep. And you.”

“Me?”

“Well, your hands, really.”

Jack stepped closer, too close (not close enough). “And what do you want with my hands, Mr. Jones?”

“Need help with the decorations.”

Jack looked up and barked a laugh at the jauntily positioned reindeer. Ianto frowned; it was _intentional_. They were supposed to be _frolicking_ green foil reindeer, thank you. 

“I’ll say,” Jack breathed and then kissed him, softly. Ianto barely had time to react before Jack pulled away. Jack laughed again. “You’re very drunk.”

Ianto shrugged and walked across the small room to untangle the string of white lights. Jack followed and took them away from him.

“Let’s leave that to sober people, shall we? Gwen would be furious if I let you electrocute yourself.”

Ianto watched Jack pick at the knots in the wires, the movement of his fingers making his eyes blurry. It was a bit like being hypnotized. After a moment, Ianto slumped down in the lone office chair.

“Why do aliens go to London on Christmas?”

“Why do fools fall in love?” Jack retorted. 

“What?”

“Too philosophical for you?”

Ianto frowned. They were doing that constant question thing again. Were they keeping score this time? He hoped not. He was having a hard enough time maintaining his focus as it was. Jack had _really_ nice hands. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I really want to know.”

“No idea. I think it might have something to do with Charles Dickens.”

Ianto’s eyes went wide. “Charles Dickens was an alien?”

Jack simply shrugged and grinned. He dropped the lights, only half unfurled, on the counter and stepped back, dangerously close, into Ianto’s personal space. 

“Let’s leave this for tomorrow,” he suggested, and Ianto nodded. 

****

_‘Twas the night before Christmas,_ Ianto recited to himself as he filled a bin liner with the detritus of the day, _and all through the Hub not a creature was stirring, not_ – He paused for a moment and then grinned. _Not one weevil cub._

And then he frowned when he realized that it was a rather long poem and altering it would take the better part of the night and more patience than he was willing to expend. 

He stretched out the kink in his neck and rolled up his sleeves. The main area of the Hub was strewn with serviettes and paper plates and plastic cutlery from lunch and, later, the impromptu Christmas party that Owen of all people had called to order. 

Of course, everyone had scampered off like little mice, leaving him with the mess. Gwen had left first, kissing his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, sweetheart!” she’d called, her cheeks red and her eyes bright with wine and chill and merriment. He’d given her a little wave and a grin.

Tosh and Owen left next, though their mutual departure seemed more accidental than planned. Toshiko hugged him and Owen nodded at him and then they were gone. 

It had been a bit like having them around to his, with all of the “Goodbye!”s and “Bundle up!”s and “Happy Christmas!”s. But now it was quiet, just the soft susurrations and whirs of the Hub at its calmest.

“Hey!” Jack called down from above. “Do you think we’ll have a white Christmas?”

Ianto shook his head, smiling, as he shoved another pizza box into the liner. When he didn’t answer immediately, Jack’s voice appeared in his ear.

“I asked if you think we’ll have a white Christmas.”

Ianto touched his comm. “I heard. And no, I don’t. Neither do the weathermen. Coming down soon?”

“Yeah, just feeding your pet. Figured the cleanup would be hefty.”

Ianto smiled and came across the pile of shredded serviettes at Gwen’s station. Unlike everything else, they were untouched by grease and were mounded up like a snow-covered hill. He tipped them in with the rest of the rubbish and scooped up the three plastic wine tumblers, as well. He wondered if it was a nervous habit or if she had been trying to make confetti.

It was during this thought that Jack appeared, breathless, next to him. His cheeks and eyes were as affected as Gwen’s and Ianto smiled.

“So,” Jack said after a moment, “no white Christmas?”

“Sorry, no. Let me guess – where you grew up, every Christmas was picture perfect.”

Jack frowned. “Well, it was, but I think we’re talking about different pictures. And anyway, we didn’t have Christmas, but we celebrated something close enough. That’s one of the things that humanity never loses, no matter how far away we travel.”

“A light in the dark,” Ianto said. 

Jack nodded. Ianto placed the last lipstick-smeared fork into the bag and tied it up. He hefted it over his shoulder to bring to the incinerator and fixed Jack with a pointed look.

“Not a word,” he muttered, rolling his eyes when Jack mimed zipping his lips.

He got halfway there before Jack called out, “But you do look good in red!”

****

It’s dark out, that sort of cold dark of winter that brightens the stars and bleaches the moon. Ianto can’t see stars, though, because of the twinkling ice blue lights that hang from the window across from his flat. The way the light plays with the shadows, and with the multicolored lights of his tree, makes his sitting room look a bit like a club. He has the overhead lights off, opting to wrap by tree light and the small lamp on his end table. 

Everyone gets their own wrapping paper, and he has each tube laid out in front of him on the floor: this time around it’s penguins in pink scarves for Gwen, blue and silver snowflakes for Toshiko, money for Owen, and biplanes on a sky blue backdrop for Jack. It has become a bit of a tradition, if a tradition could be borne in less than a handful of years, that Ianto’s wrapping paper is almost as personal as his gifts.

The presents for his family are already wrapped and settled beneath the tree (which he realizes is a bit ridiculous; he’ll only have to pack them up to bring over to Rhiannon’s in a couple of days. Still, they look nice there). They each have their own paper, too, except for the designated Santa gifts. Those are done up elaborately, with vintage candy cane paper and bows. Rhi will do her Santa-presents in the same paper, and replace his hastily scrawled “M” and “D” Post-Its with proper labels that will match the calligraphy on Santa’s response to the children’s wish-list. Ianto has always admired (and envied) Rhiannon’s adeptness with script.

There is soft music playing in the background, though it’s so quiet that he’s not sure what it is now. Turning up the volume would require actually getting up, and he’s boxed himself in, so he deals with it. He unrolls a bit of the penguin paper and places the box containing Gwen’s gift in the center. His phone buzzes once, twice, and he checks his messages. He types a response (a simple _yes_ to Jack’s query about waffles for breakfast) before going back to his wrapping.

Gwen’s present is done, complete with neon pink ribbon and a bow, when the distinct sound of a key in the lock makes him look up. He has the plain white box of Owen’s gift in his hand as the door swings open and Jack blusters in.

It’s unseasonably warm for late December, though still cool, and Jack’s coat is open like a cape. As per usual, of course. Ianto waves the gift in greeting and Jack grins, toeing off his shoes and hefting the bags in his left hand to get better leverage.

“Glad you said yes; I already got everything,” he says, and rummages in the bag. He triumphantly pulls out a container. “And I even got us some eggnog so we can – oh. Well. I got us some cream. What can we do with cream?”

Ianto rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he carefully folds the ends of the money paper around the present. “Leave it for the neighbor’s cats with a bow, I suppose,” he says.

“And a tag that says ‘Meowy Christmas’?” 

Jack carries the bags into the kitchen and flicks on the light. It seeps into the sitting room and Ianto blinks against it a few times, letting his eyes adjust. He can hear broken snatches of Jack’s humming as he unpacks everything. Despite the fact that Jack can’t see him, Ianto rolls his eyes again.

“No more hanging out with Gwen for you.”

Jack laughs. “Want everything put away?”

“Please,” Ianto replies, not looking up from measuring Toshiko’s gift against the wrapping with a careful eye. “And thank you.”

He can hear the rustle of paper and the seal of the refrigerator as it’s opened and closed. The music gets louder, too, as does Jack’s humming. Then there’s a bit of clinking, the slam of a cabinet, and Jack’s back in the sitting room holding two tumblers of whiskey. He places them on the coffee table.

“Dance with me,” he commands.

Ianto’s hands freeze mid-fold. He shakes his head. “Maybe when I’m done.”

Jack settles on the couch behind him and toes the last unwrapped box. It’s marked with a pink Post-It emblazoned with a sloppy ‘J’. 

“Is that mine?” he asks. “What is it?”

“You’ll find out in less than forty-eight hours.”

Truth is, this is only Jack’s work present, suitable for opening up in the Hub on Boxing Day and to divert the others from asking too many questions or making too many hypotheses. Hell, sometimes he needs to keep himself from asking too many questions or making too many hypotheses. But, in any case, Jack doesn’t need to know that he’ll have plenty to unwrap tomorrow, too.

“I didn’t peg you as someone who’d wait to the last minute,” Jack said, nodding to the packages on the floor.

Ianto shrugs and battles with a piece of tape that clings to his fingers. When he gets it loose, he crumples it up and lets it drop on top of the small pile of scraps he’s collected. A quick turn, a bit of ribbon, and the last present is done.

“Dance with me,” Jack repeats and stands, nudging the gifts away with the side of his right foot. 

Ianto stands, too, which Jack takes as an invitation. Closing his eyes, Ianto can feel the twitch in Jack’s muscles and the comfortable warmth of his skin as he’s almost literally tucked ( _like a bloody girl,_ Ianto grumbles good-naturedly to himself) against Jack’s chest. Jack fiddles with something and the redness of light through Ianto’s eyelids darkens to almost black.

They’re swaying to something slow and classic-sounding, obviously Christmas oriented if the bells and chimes are anything to go by, but Ianto doesn’t recognize it. It could’ve been composed a century ago or last week for all he knows.

Jack presses his lips somewhere between Ianto’s cheek and temple, like he was aiming for one or the other and missed. 

“You know,” he says quietly, “I could get used to this.”

Ianto smiles because, damn it all, he already has.


End file.
